Two weeks ago, on a Wednesday, around 3:35 p.m. I was shot in

Fayetteville in the left arm. Ok, I wasn't really shot. But I DID

have to go to the Fayette County Health Department and get a shot,

for typhoid, I think. On the other hand, one would have thought

that I was about to really be shot instead of just get one.

I hate shots. I detest shots. When it comes to shots, I am the

coward of the county. Funny, isn't it? I've been in the Marines,

worked in child protective services (child abuse) for a state agency,

played seven years of football, fought in full-contact karate tournaments,

been on patrol with the police, and survived numerous church board

meetings. You'd think I'd be ready for anything.

In the course of my life, I've been screamed at, cursed at, punched

at, pushed at, stabbed at, shot at, and had my life and the life

of my family threatened; and, no, not all of those were at church

board meetings. Yet, when it comes to getting a shot, I assume

the character of Daffy Duck who once said, "I'm not like other

people; pain hurts me!"

My wife knows that I hate shots. When she was in nursing school,

she came home one day and announced that she needed to practice

giving shots and drawing blood. I thought she was going to practice

on a watermelon or something. When she said she wanted to practice

on me, I drew back in horror and yelled, "You must be on dope!" For

me, an oral thermometer is an invasive medical procedure.

When I went into the Marines, they failed to tell me that, in

boot camp, you get 103 shots. Well, it seemed like 103 shots. Don't

get me wrong; I don't faint, or pass out, or throw up. I don't

even mind the sight of blood as long as it's someone else's blood.

I just dread knowing that a shot is coming.

Once, a few years ago, I was ill. In fact, it was about the sickest

I'd ever been. I asked my wife to call the doctor and try to get

me in. The doc went to our church so he told me to come right in

(it's who you know, ya know). Cindy said, "David, he said

to come in and he'll give you some shots." When I started

to get out of bed, pull on my clothes, and said, "Ok, let's

go," she knew that I must be very, very sick, indeed. It's

the only time I felt so bad that I wanted the shot.

When I went to Kenya and Uganda in 1998, I had to get seven shots.

I scheduled four of them at the health department for a certain

day and the other three at an infectious disease place in another

town for the following week. After dreading the four shots for

two weeks, the day finally came and I offered my arms up and took

them like a man. When I got